


blind stars of fortune

by verlaines_ex



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Castiel Pontificates on Human Emotion, Castiel is Jack Kline's Parent, Castiel is a Multidimensional Wavelength of Celestial Intent, Character Study, Episode Fix-It: s15e20 Carry On, Fix-It, Jack said no rusty nails in this Minecraft server, M/M, Other, Reunions, seriously i go ham with the wave vocab
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:41:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29436963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verlaines_ex/pseuds/verlaines_ex
Summary: It is Dean's soul as Castiel had never quite seen it before, light with freedom and heavy with the consequences of this unexpected levity. (Or, Castiel awakens from his most recent death to a completely changed world.)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 49
Collections: Profound Bond Gift Exchange: Reunion





	blind stars of fortune

**Author's Note:**

  * For [troublemakersmark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/troublemakersmark/gifts).



> This work was written as part of the 7th Profound Bond Gift Exchange as a gift for @troublemakersmark. Many thanks to my beta, @drjackandmisjo, for dealing with my abuse of semicolons. Title from Led Zeppelin's Ten Years Gone. Enjoy!

There is nothing. And then – the tiniest of amplitudes, strung as softly as a virgin’s hand on her harp. He is awake, and he is aware.

There is no resonance in this plane of existence, no vibrations of life, no swell of energy, nothing but an endless, eerie stillness that stretches to the tipping point of reality. And Castiel, he knows this. He’s been here before, and he knows the terror of being a _something_ within a _nothing_ . He wonders whether this time will be any different, whether a hope exists that he may once again join the symphony of existence. To continue to be _something_ within _nothing_ – that would be the utmost torment.

An interference. Another _something_. A something that is like nothing else, disruptions rolling through Castiel’s existence and yet failing to extinguish him. Once again, quite the irony: a presence stronger than all except life, and therefore altogether intolerant of it.

„You again,” the Empty says, and the presence rolls gently over Castiel, displacing his energy and fracturing his light, forcing him to contort into amplitudes he never had been created for. „Your God is calling for you again. It is becoming rather tiresome.”

Castiel had thought that he would become _nothing_ within a _nothing_. And though he would have delighted in more than just a dancing shimmer of joy, he held no regret within himself for the why and wherefore of his death. It was simply something that had to be done to preserve the light, to preserve the endless possibilities existence allowed for.

„I did not seek my resurrection,” he says, and the Empty replies:

„Of course you didn’t. And yet, I’m awake.”

And the Empty presses down upon him but there is no defying Life. He is _something_ , and with every oscillation of his being, he becomes more, something intolerable in this plane where not even the Universe’s heart beats. The Empty shrieks at him – _you are never to return_ – and then he is free.

***

It is comforting to no longer be the brightest light. He stretches himself over the skies of Heaven and his unconstrained form rolls along gently sloping hills, flowing through the vineyards and apiaries. Heaven is new: a lot seems to have changed since he has been gone. The sunlight is real now. Waves and waves of energy mingle with his own, bright and soft and all-encompassing.

There is something else, too: a resonance within every particle that he has no memory of ever being there. It is soft and pleasant, an omnipresent hum of tranquility. He feels it amplified within himself. It isn’t the least difficult to recognize.

„Jack.”

A tendril of grace – dispersed and strange, yet not at all weak – reaches out towards his own and Castiel extends himself, surrendering to the pull of power. He then hovers; but the dimensions part before him, as if passing through butter. In the middle of a sunlit meadow, he slips into Jimmy Novak’s waiting body.

It is a sensation he used to dislike. A vessel is a compound of cells manifested in the physical plane, pumping with energy in artless dissonance – and yet it is precisely this rough, overly-defined physicality that allows for manifestation in the world of humans. These constraints limit, but also tie together: the finite nature of existence births the development of meaning. Castiel has learned to appreciate the multitude of ways meaning can sprout from senseless circumstance. He has learned to marvel at how humans can see walls loom endless around them – and invent _love_ in response.

After all these years, the vessel is comfortable; and though all these years are truly but twelve, it carries a sense of home within it. Castiel knows that he likely will never experience the full scope of feeling and sensation that humanity has to offer, but he knows it is _something_ when his heart swells to the sight of Jack standing in front of him, right hand raised in friendly greeting.

„Hello, Castiel.”

„Jack,” he says again, and surges forward to envelope the young man in an embrace. Jack’s arms immediately wrap tight around him, pulling him close. It is a long time before they part.

„It is great to be corporeal, isn't it?” Jack smiles, cocking his head in a way that Dean had said resembled Castiel a lot. Castiel nods, soft. The corners of eyes crinkle, and his blood is a torrent through his veins. This, too, is relatively new: he used to be so distanced from this physical manifestation of himself, and yet, now, he can tune into its sensations, to the beating of the heart within, to the touch of fabric against his fingertips when his arms hang by his sides.

„It is,” he says. He pauses, then asks: „Are you God now?”

„I suppose I am. But I try not to be like Chuck. He’s human now, by the way.”

„You have to tell me how that happened,” says Castiel with the subtle smile he has become quite proficient at. And though it may be easy to forget that Jack is still so young, it becomes very apparent when he starts talking: he may be the new God of this universe, but his energy pulses with the vivacity characteristic of fledgeling angels. And perhaps Castiel is still delirious from resurrection, but he finds his attention wandering to the little mannerisms Jack has picked up from the Winchester brothers, subtle cues pointing to the humanity that remains intrinsic to this powerful being that happens to be his son.

His son: human and angelic and divine. Castiel listens to him with pride. Jack recounts the horror of solitude, the fight, the reconstruction; the step that he took back into the scenery so as not to corrupt himself the way Chuck had. This is no longer the absent father of the legends. This is something new and exciting.

„I try not to be too involved, but there is still some fixing up to do. Would you like to help me?”

It is natural that Castiel agrees. Free will or not, this is the universe he had sworn to protect with his life – and not only with his death –, and this is the humanity he is so _’enamoured’_ with.

Then, Jack looks a little sheepish, „I, uhh... I took the liberty of restoring your wings and your vessel. I hope it's alright with you, I don’t quite know how you prefer to manifest. I’m not often corporeal these days, but it is definitely something I occasionally miss.”

Castiel shakes his head.

„It is perfect, Jack. Let’s just hope I haven’t forgotten how to fly.”

He hasn’t. And he finds that so much has happened in such a short span of time that he has almost forgotten what it feels like to fly with a companion. And so many of his previous relationships had soured during his rebellion – to fly with his son was the utmost of joys; a delightful manifestation of free will, if you wish.

Jack shows him the universe that he has reconstructed, all its facets and planes. Pride swells within Castiel’s chest as he witnesses the new glory of a new Creation. When he had been observing Earth, patrolling it blind and deaf and insensitive, he had stood baffled at the way in which parents could look upon their wholly average children and see perfection. He now understands: Jack is wholly not-average, and all that he pulses within is greater than perfection.

He throws himself into the work that remains to be done, all the various matters that arise whenever planes of existence are constructed anew: conflicting laws of physics may be for Jack to resolve, but Castiel can occupy himself with coordinating the Heavenly Host.

There are new angels, created by Jack via the mutation of willing human souls into grace. It is a different Heaven than what Castiel had become accustomed to during his millennia of existence. There are warriors here, plenty, but also angels of a different sort, more in line with what humanity had conceptualized his species as: helpful and caring guardians of the souls, seeing as they themselves are of human origin.

Castiel often ponders how these new angels have experienced this rapid expansion of their limits. How long their fragile humanity can possibly be maintained without the forces that coerce them into interdependence. Whether they even recognize the yet oncoming transpositions.

Perhaps the least angelic element of it all, Castiel reminisces. All that has happened in these past twelve years was but the tiniest fraction of his millennia, and yet these years had brought greater changes, greater joys and sorrows than all his previous existence. Hazy, distant, he still remembers his years as a fledgeling, naive to his future. He had been carrying but the ungerminated seed of free will within himself, a predisposition not yet activated by external circumstances. The duties distracting him from his possibilities had occupied him sufficiently to ever take a step backwards from what was immediate.

As he now stands explaining the functioning of the world to the new angels, imparting both history and culture unto them, Castiel is reminded of his own first decades in the garrison, attempting to reconcile multitudes of contrasting information. He never quite succeeded, and yet his confusions had never quite sufficed to germinate that seed until the touch of Dean Winchester’s soul had left him so mesmerized at the beauty of all that was forbidden.

And then, there are the humans. Angels mingle with them, occasionally, to listen to their sorrows, to identify what issues to fix. These new angels of human origin are – for now, Castiel surmises – particularly fit for the task, and engage in it with great enthusiasm.

The Heaven of human souls is still a work in progress. For now, the scene is conceptual. Jack is considering his options, testing different variants across different subsections of his population. One thing is for certain: the afterlife is no longer an eternal slumber locked inside a dream, separated from fellow souls till the end of time. Isolation is no way for humans to exist, no matter their form.

He hopes Dean will like Heaven, when his time comes. Dean’s soul shouldn’t be wasted on endless slumber.

 _Dean._ Maybe Castiel has become too accustomed to confinement within a vessel, but through the concept of proximity he has also learned the concept of distance, and that of avoidance. And annoyingly enough, he has a strong temptation to engage in it. So he twiddles away at whatever little matter grasps his attention, and it is a comfort to know that he shall not run out of convenient little matters in the foreseeable future.

And yet–

Heaven can wait. Castiel is no longer astonished at this realization of his beliefs. He has made Heaven wait too many times to share in the fears of a novice.

This, here, is the battle he feels ill-equipped to handle. Castiel first lands in front of the bunker. To his astonishment, his heart starts thumping with obscene strength and his hands become clammy. Within the blink of an eye he is in the parking lot of a used car dealership on the outskirts of Wichita. It feels safer this way. It is driving, not flight.

He purchases a truck; the cheery hues of yellow reflect off the surfaces with a vibrant hum that reminds him of Jack’s resonance. The truck itself grumbles rather than roars. There is an added perk: he finds a cassette jammed into the glovebox. The Corrs. It takes but a prod to repair the distended tape and melted plastic.

The picture he paints in the truck must be ludicrous. Dean will be sure to curse out the vehicle, and Castiel anticipates the warmth the fond complaints will ignite in him.

He then reverses out of the lot and sets off back towards Lebanon, Kansas.

Time passes fast enough for a being who has lived so long. It passes even faster when there is dread lodged deep within him and he oscillates out of tune with his environment, with his beloved sunlight, with the soil humanity walks.

The entrance to the bunker has not changed, it really didn’t have time to do so in two hours. Castiel hesitates but nevertheless kills the engine. There is a dead weight upon him as he knocks on the door, the action achingly familiar. More familiar now, than flying. But there is no response: nobody comes out to meet him. Castiel waits an hour for the brothers to return, if they even live here anymore. And in that hour, his courage trickles away into nothingness, and then he leaves. 

He stashes the truck in Downs, Kansas and returns to Heaven.

***

Jack doesn’t often manifest himself physically. It is really unnecessary, he insists, and he does not want to unleash the potential consequences of involvement with the broader universe. 

Castiel has taken to carrying Three Musketeers bars in his pockets to tempt Jack into a few minutes of being corporeal.

The humans would also be quite amused to see their God being chided by his father that they do not hug enough; it is the most effective plan of attack that Castiel has conceived in his existence.

Without his son and the Winchesters, existence is a little lonely, but Castiel makes do. He has no doubts that with time, he will form bonds with the new angels. Besides, there is still plenty to do, what with the general bureaucratic nonsense that restructuring entails.

Castiel is amused to discover one Jimmy Novak in Heaven. His former vessel, now his inadvertent twin, is happy and healthy, and had gone through a distinctive wardrobe change since his time on Earth. He wears soft turtlenecks now, and wool trousers in various shades of grey. He no longer looks, as Dean would put it, like a _’holy tax accountant’_ , which is convenient, as Castiel has grown quite fond of his outfit. They are easily discernible, like this, to the human eye; not that Castiel plans to bother Jimmy in the afterlife. The upheaval of the man’s life still gnawed at him.

Whom he does plan to bother, now that his yearning overshadows his fear, is the Winchester brothers. A decade ago he had professed a more profound bond with the elder brother; and unlike the slow trickle of emotion that builds up to an angelic bond, the love he nurtured within himself for Dean had been a torrential downpour dismantling everything Castiel used to believe in.

And he knew Dean cared for him, it could not be doubted. What Castiel couldn’t fathom accurately was the true extent of their bond. He had mapped every ebb and flow of the human’s soul onto the firing of each of his neurons, and yet he still couldn’t quite infer the processes contained within, not with genuine understanding. When he had professed his love for Dean, there had been tears in those beautiful green eyes, begging him to stop – his death or his confession?

He tries again, to see the brothers. He takes the truck from Downs – he doesn’t even bother flying, the driving calms him –, and this time he does not hesitate to bang on the front door of the bunker. He shivers as he feels the impact of footsteps approaching. He doesn’t have the time to ponder why he wouldn’t simply withdraw from experiencing the sensation.

„Who’s there?” Dean’s voice booms, and Castiel cannot help but close his eyes in relief at the strength apparent in the sound.

„Hello, Dean.”

There is silence. It stretches too long. Stretches thin, like grace, in the moment of an angel’s death, and then comes the bang of a fist against the door.

„Fuck off, Lucifer.”

Castiel cocks his head, eyebrows drawing together.

„Dean?”

„I thought you’d died for good, you son of a bitch. Need me to kill you again, huh, is that it?”

„Dean...”

There is silence then, perhaps even soft cursing, but Castiel can’t quite make it out.

„I am alive again, Dean, I don’t know how, but I am. It is me.”

The cursing is now clearly audible, and the bunker’s door tears open. And Dean is there, still so beautiful, still shining so bright despite all the scars upon his soul, both familiar and new. It is his soul as Castiel had never quite seen it before, light with freedom and heavy with the consequences of this unexpected levity.

His eyes are unfocused as they look at Castiel, the telltale sign that he has been drinking more than he ought to, more than even he can handle. He leans heavily against the doorframe, and a smile spreads across his lips, flowing into a chuckle that chills Castiel to the bone.

„Yeah, right. You’ve shown up here before and you were freakin’ Satan, so don’t expect me to drink the Kool-Aid. Nice work on the meatsuit, though.”

„Yes, Jack informed me that Lucifer visited you bearing my voice, but I assure you...”

„Dean?” comes from within the bunker. „Who is it?”

„Jehovah’s Witnesses,” Dean yells back and moves to slam the door shut, but Castiel blocks him. There is an alarmed look to Dean’s face and then Sam is thumping up the stairs. He freezes when he notices the angel.

„Cas?” His voice is small, his expression bewildered, and suspicious; Castiel wonders what exactly had gone down on that fateful day. After what feels like an eternity, Sam shakes his head as if to clear his thoughts. „Come in.”

Dean makes a move as if to protest, but Sam stops him; the brothers’ silent communication is unimpaired. They descend the stairs and then they don’t quite know what to do: they stand in a circle, the three of them, Castiel slightly further off than the brothers. Ten years ago he would have thought nothing of this silence but now it's jarring. 

He understands the magnitude of all that is unsaid.

His eyes dart around, discomfort weighing him down.

The bunker has changed, but not unrecognizably so. There are indications not only of a prolonged residence, but also that of a home, comfortable and lived-in, the humans existing in their surroundings in tentative acceptance of their success, and the knowledge that leisure is permitted. Pillows and blankets of various colours, materials and textures are now strewn around on the chairs for year-round comfort, and a half-finished game of _Settlers of Catan_ sprawls abandoned at the table’s end. Next to it, a tin box of Danish cookies. Castiel has become familiar with the implications. He does not doubt, however, that in this curious household, it does indeed contain sweets.

Dean breaks the silence, „I need a beer.”

Sam’s face twists into what Dean tends to affectionately call a _’bitchface’_ , but they nevertheless all transfer themselves to the kitchen to retrieve their drinks. Dean’s face doesn’t soften when he looks at Castiel, not as it usually does, but he offers a cracked-open bottle and Castiel readily accepts.

The longer the time he had spent on Earth and the further he had depleted his grace, the less food and drink had tasted of molecules. With his powers restored, his appreciation is once again constrained by the perception of each individual molecule constituting a meal; he misses the hazy coalescence of sensation that used to accompany consumption. He’ll take his complaint to Jack. He’ll opt for diminished powers any day over this inability to experience what Dean experiences.

They sit back down in the War Room.

„So... what happened, Cas?” Sam asks, ever the mediator, and Castiel sighs.

He recounts it all: how he had called upon the Empty to swallow both himself and Billie. He talks about the Empty, about the voice that woke him up again, about the entity that he had yet again managed to anger. He tells of his eviction from that realm–

But Dean’s expression is still cold as steel, green eyes bear into his with an icy chill.

„Sammy,” Dean finally says, „I need to speak with him alone.”

Sam stutters and stumbles, but he nevertheless makes a hasty retreat towards his room, and Dean and Castiel stay there, sitting opposite each other, staring at each other, yearning for this situation to solve itself.

„So, _Castiel_... Anything you forgot to mention right here?”

Castiel sighs.

„Yes. I wasn’t sure whether you would be alright with me mentioning it in front of Sam, you can be rather private.” There is something in Dean’s gaze that flickers and Castiel hopes that it is something good. „Dean, before, I had confessed to being in love with you...”

Dean’s shoulders relax, if only for a fraction of a second. Then that flicker in his eyes erupts into a firestorm as Dean’s fist comes banging down onto the table.

„And then you went and fucking died on me!”

This is what is most terrifying about humanity: that through all their thoughts, their wills, their sentiments, one can never quite tell exactly what is going on inside their heads. That there are so many agents that shape each individual that despite some broad generalizations, they are each so wonderfully unique, so bright and distinctive. Castiel can sense it, the neurons that fire within Dean’s brain, the pathways the sparks take throughout his body, the flares of his soul swirling in that pattern so distinctly unique to him, and he is breathless to discover that this fear is no different from that which humans have become so accustomed to. If Castiel is indeed to rescind his powers, it is to this that he is committing: this certainty of uncertainty, this finite depth and breadth of perception that allows the light in the world to bleed into one.

So Castiel admits, once again, to all that he feels: to the beauty of Dean Winchester’s soul, yes, but also to all his fears and regrets. He tries to explain it to Dean, how he had accepted that in that moment, his Death seemed more useful than his Life. He would have given Dean all his life, without hesitation: and yet, in that moment, it is his death that was needed, and so that is what he offered.

And he tries to say more, but he can’t quite open his mouth because Dean shakes his head and rises from his chair, stalking over to where Castiel is seated. Castiel stands, himself, mirroring Dean.

„Damn it, Cas. I missed you!”

And then, if only for a minute, everything is alright. Castiel is enveloped in a hug and he feels as if his Grace had swelled to reach the outermost neurons of this borrowed system – _his, now, his!_ –, and they are all alight with the relief of having Dean in his arms. He pulls the man closer, feels the warmth emanating from his solid, strong body; Dean’s body molds itself to his, and for once, the action is unconscious, shameless.

Then abruptly, Dean pulls away. His grip is firm on Castiel’s upper arms, and his eyes search Castiel’s. And Castiel cannot help but stare back, as he so often does: taking in every atom that constitutes Dean Winchester, marvelling at how these irrelevant little particles can coalesce into this being that means the world to him.

Dean breaks eye contact. He looks at his feet, but he doesn’t relinquish his grip on the angel.

„I, uhh... I’m sorry for thinking you were Lucifer.” 

Castiel opens his mouth to protest, to absolve him of any perceived sin, but Dean shushes him as he continues: „That was harsh. It’s just, you know, it was fucking crap. You tell me how much I matter to you, man, and then the next moment you announce you’re fucking kicking the bucket for good. I thought I couldn’t go on the last time that happened. Hell, if it weren’t for Sam, and thinking Jack was gonna nuke the world...And then Chuck just goes and deletes humanity like it was his goddamn browser history. Cas... You’re my best friend. Fuck, I’ve lost you far too many times...”

„I’m sorry, Dean.” Castiel again tries to intervene – to comfort Dean – but Dean seems to be a man on a mission. This has been happening more and more often: Dean opening up and letting himself be seen, letting those closest to him at least scratch upon the surface of his true thoughts without any anger to block the way.

„And then, fuck... everything’s fucked but I get this call, and it’s you, and hell, I couldn’t believe it. But it was your voice, and I was hoping to see you again so bad, and, fuck... It was Lucifer, Cas.”

Dean has to sit down. He chooses the chair next to Castiel, and he pulls it closer; there is a vulnerability to him that Castiel did not expect, not like this.

„And after it was all over... we researched, Cas. We prayed to Jack and he didn’t answer, and so we researched some more. I broke my fucking back, Cas, I read so much. And you were nowhere, and I couldn’t reach you, I thought I’d lost you forever.” Tears shimmer in Dean’s eyes, and Dean doesn’t blink them away.

Castiel collapses into the chair beside Dean’s, his head in his hands, hunched over the table.

„He did, Dean,” he says. „He heard your prayers. He called for me, and he brought me back. But I was too afraid.” 

Dean bites his lips, his eyes squeezed shut against what must be an onslaught of sentiment. Castiel cannot blame him. 

„I am sorry, Dean. I was a coward.”

Dean seems as if he may spit up a curse, might send Castiel to Hell (as if that was a threat to them anymore, hah). But he doesn’t: it is yet another of those little changes within him, the restraints he had used to curb his own desires slowly rechanneled to constrain the righteous anger within him, that long-simmering flame that is only now beginning to extinguish.

„I try not to get angry, Cas. It’s a crap habit. But dammit, you could have at least said something. You think I didn't deserve to know?”

Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose. It is the moment of truth, and he can’t escape it. Dean has avoided the topic of his confession, and it doesn’t comfort him the least bit; but it has to be discussed. And so he tries to remember what it was like to be a warrior of Heaven, no fear in his heart. His hand comes up to caress Dean’s cheek, to turn his head to look Castiel in the eyes.

„Dean, I... I said I loved you,” and Castiel’s hand stays firmly on Dean’s cheek in the hope that his eyes may convey to the hunter what his words cannot. „I still love you. And I confess, to talk about it, it... it terrifies me more than anything we’ve ever faced. Your friendship is the most precious gift that I have received in all of my existence. To simply be here, to be around you, to spend time with you, is already more than I could ever have asked for. I must admit, when I confessed my love to you, I thought my death would absolve me of any consequences of said confession; now, it seems, I am to face you, and your response.”

Dean has that smile on his face, with the hanging head, the slight disappointment, almost a chuckle. When he doesn’t quite know how to make sense of things. 

It is this that had terrified Castiel so much: this hesitance.

„I uh, I had an inkling, Cas. Even before this whole shebang. But you know, things do sometimes get lost in translation. I’m not always certain whether we mean the same things, angels and humans, when we discuss, uh, feelings.”

Cas smiles, rueful.

„Yes, that is true. I have learned a lot about humanity, but some nuances still get lost on me.”

Dean sits still. He is silent in the way that he rarely is, almost pondering in his carefulness. But Dean never has been able to deny his nature: he is movement and he is action, a force that not even God could subdue. And he doesn’t retreat, not even before this challenge: his eyes flutter, tentatively settling on Cas.

„Could you describe it? How you meant it? And I can try to understand?”

He is clearly nervous; Castiel, too, swallows even though he doesn’t have to. Perhaps it is the connection to this vessel. Perhaps it is the intention of expressing himself in a way a human will comprehend. In a way that Dean will.

„I love you,” he says. „I love you, Dean, in all of love’s possible forms, and whichever forms you will accept. I can only repeat what I have told you before the Empty took me. You are the most beautiful being I have ever set my eyes upon. It is written into your soul, it shines in its every oscillation, that you are a creature of love. I wish that you could see what I see when I look at you, the spark, the strength, the care... It was your soul that taught me to love, and it was your soul that perfected my love. I...”

Dean has that look in his eyes: the one he had before Castiel died, uncomprehending and shattered. Then instinct takes over within him, that reliable weapon of a hunter. A reliable weapon that leaves room for deflection. Dean gives a lopsided smile.

„And my body?”

Castiel chuckles and breathes relief. They are here, finally, at this conversation; he will not falter now.

„Yes, your body is also beautiful. You know, I had thought that, right when I first rebuilt you: that there was perfection even within your atoms. It goes without saying, that you are a beautiful man, inside and out. I do not wish any further death upon you, but I would gladly rebuild you again: I do not believe I appreciated it enough the first time.”

Dean’s brows draw together. Castiel understands the confusion.

„But yes,” he smiles at Dean in what he hopes is a reassuring manner, „I have also gained appreciation for your body in the human sense of desire. I would very much like to know you carnally, if that would be pleasing to you, as well.”

Dean blushes.

„I may need to think on that part, I, uhh...”

„You’re heterosexual, yes,” Castiel says.

Dean buries his face in his hands.

„Fucking overwhelmed is what I am, Cas.”

„I am sorry.”

„No need to apologize, Cas. It’s been a rough... hell, it’s been a rough life. But I’m not some fucking puppet anymore and I guess I’m still digesting that. Just let me, uh, let me sit on this one a little.”

„As long as you need, Dean.”

They are silent; the _’ball is in Dean’s court’_ , as the humans would say, and Castiel isn’t quite sure how he feels about that. He is stretched thin, and yet in harmony with the various resonances of the world. It is this utter harmony that has been missing, he realizes. It is the harmony originating from fitting seamlessly into the world, accepting the joys and sorrows it brings and yet awaiting its sensations with open arms. It is existing within the circle of all those whom he loves, and who love him in return, in all the diverse forms that love can take.

And so Castiel is compelled to remark:

„Jack is here, you know. All around us, just like he promised. You might not feel it, but he resonates within every particle of reality, including in you and in me. You will laugh at me for saying this, but he has a very pleasant hum.”

Dean does indeed laugh, just a little. A dog pads into the room – his name is Miracle, Castiel learns – and slips under the table, nuzzling against Dean’s thigh, and Dean reaches to scratch at the dog’s scruffy ears. The motion is unconscious, the habituality of it comforting: Castiel knows the extent to which the human species appreciates soft household creatures, how receptive they are to the affection of a beloved pet.

The evening blossoms into a particularly joyous one. Eileen returns home just as the sun is beginning to dip below the horizon. She envelopes Castiel in a warm hug, and demands to hear his story, which Castiel gladly recounts.

The sobriety induced by their conversation, or perhaps the conversation itself – Castiel hesitates to presume – has invigorated Dean, and the party is herded into the kitchen. The idea of cooking a meal is hastily abandoned. The freezer reveals a large quantity of frozen goods, and Dean argues for pizza, citing as his motivations an immense hunger and an unwillingness to waste his time chopping anything.

Castiel proposes that the restoration of his wings designates him as an excellent candidate for the delivery of food.

„One of our newest angels in Heaven has impressed upon me the quality of the food at his family’s restaurant. They have all manner of hearty dishes, such as...”

„Don’t you dare leave,” Dean immediately pipes up, and so Castiel does not fly delivery. They shove two trays of frozen lasagna into the oven. There is also half of a blueberry pie within the fridge, the crust a little soggy, but _’nothing 5 minutes in the oven and a lil’ whipped cream can’t fix’_ , as Dean proclaims. The warm glow within Castiel’s heart remains; Dean seems incapable of leaving his side.

Sitting around the table, the mood soars even higher. Eileen had been at a hunters’ meeting during Castiel’s arrival. She and Sam have been working on a community initiative that would involve large-scale, digitally available archives, as well as a loose net of regional support for optimal help and coordination between hunters. The nature of their profession also lent itself well to improvements in silent communication. Eileen regularly hosts ASL workshops, allowing hunters to have a unified, expressive and versatile code at their disposal.

Dean also smiles sheepishly as he explains the change in heading his own life took. He is now a mechanic two towns over. The job is satisfying: he is still helping civilians, and the shop has transformed into an ideal place for hunters to bring their cars when their requests would weird a regular mechanic out.

„So this kid from Iowa, he’d been hunting some ghosts up near Kearney. Now I don’t know how the poor sod managed it, but his truck’s engine, like the entire fucking thing, inside and out, was covered in gelled up ectoplasm. The consistency of grape jelly. Would’ve kicked his ass if he didn’t offer to do the worst of the cleaning. Still almost did.”

Dean tucks into the lasagna with gusto. Frankly, it is quite a disgusting meal, Castiel can sense that something is already off at the molecular level. But nothing can dampen the relief of being in his family’s presence: really, the only improvement to this gathering would be the presence of all the other loved ones whom they’d lost on the way. They’re not returning, though, and Castiel’s own resurrection, if only for now, must overshadow all else that seems impossible.

And when the plates are licked clean, and the dishes are abandoned on the table, they settle into the _'Dean Cave'_ , which has also received an upgrade in the form of a large sofa. Sam recalls that someone had dumped it in front of the bunker. It used to have fancy-schmancy legs, but two of them were missing and so Dean had sawed the remaining ones off, too, and now they had a comfortable, if a little odd-looking piece of furniture to heap themselves upon.

Dean, naturally, seats himself next to Castiel, and even crowds him up against the armrest to _’make room for Sammy and Eileen’_. Castiel delights in being pressed up so close to Dean while watching the crappy slasher flick. He allows for full sensation in his vessel to best appreciate the heat of Dean against his left, and he barely even notices the press of the armrest against his ribs.

The television has been functioning adequately since the Mrs Butters incident, although not properly maintained without the help of a magical housekeeper: it needs the occasional hardy thump to coax it back from freezing up. Dean has assembled a generously duct-taped apparatus from a mop handle and a broomstick that accomplishes this task with great efficacy, without ever having to stand up from the sofa. Castiel could technically fix the television with a snap of his fingers; Dean, however, seems to lean further and further into Castiel after every whack of the device, and so Castiel abstains from being helpful.

Sam and Eileen, on the far side of the couch, are also huddled together. They are only half-engrossed in the television, sneaking in kisses and silently signed commentary alike. It is a miracle that nobody spills their drink. Occasionally, if the joke warrants it, Sam will repeat it out loud while Eileen giggles uncontrollably.

 _He has nightmares_ , Sam tells Castiel on the side, when Dean is on a beer run to the kitchen. _Realistic ones. The ones that make you question what is real and what isn’t, and I think they happen every night_. Castiel feels his eyes well up, the action still new and yet almost natural. He wishes he could mend the scars on Dean’s soul, but only time can do that.

He sees that weariness, on all of them, in the undercurrents of their innocuous fun. He had seen it on Jack, too, but Jack was a divinity, and he was tied down with a purpose that focused his energy and distracted him from his troubles.

Sam’s soul, just like Dean’s, is heavy with the weight of all these years, the scars of demon blood and Lucifer stark against the light. He, too, is a man who knows the true weight of responsibility.

His soul pulses valiantly against the interferences seeking to dim it. Castiel has always marvelled at the brothers: how they could be simultaneously so different and yet so alike, both of them slaves to love, performing their servitudes in such contrasting manners.

It's the same light that emanates from their souls. Sam’s is a deep rumble, reaching ever forward, comforting and steady. Dean’s is brighter, a variable and sparkling entity, flaring up and drawing back in at dizzying speeds. Castiel cherishes them both – he could pick these souls out from a hundred billion others.

And among all that remains unsaid, the space between the notes tells the trials of the man he loves. The delicate balance that keeps Dean from toppling, he sees, is compromised; he senses it in the smell of alcohol on the hunter’s breath, in the restless twitch of his calloused hands. Sam had always been fortunate enough to, by nature, seek the sorts of connections that stabilized him through the worst of storms. And though he’d suffered so many changes in his life, this stubborn dedication to contentment had allowed him peace.

Dean – Dean has always been something of a different story: many faces around the same flaming heart, the mother, the father, the son, the daughter. The lover, the universe and the salvation all swirling into one.

It should be fitting that the man with no _’before’_ should so fascinate the creature whose existence had been upturned after so many millennia.

And Dean, by now, seems to have learned how to read Castiel in the dark, even when the rage of a caged animal clouds his senses. Now, too, he has so many faces, the calm and the turbulent all flowing into one, never quite cancelling each other out. Their fingers touch, when the bottle of ale is handed over; green eyes meet blue and a smile is exchanged, soft and warm and familiar, as is befitting of a reunion in peacetime.

Sam and Eileen retreat when the movie is over and Castiel is swallowed in another flurry of hugs. And when they are alone together in the dark, no noise around them but the static of the television, Dean is still pressed up against Castiel, and Castiel is still pressed up against Dean, revelling in the closeness, in the feeling of _something_ after a long life of _nothing_.

Dean kills the static with the press of a button on the remote. And then the only sound in the room is his heartbeat, growing ever stronger and faster.

Dean’s soul has been swirling about; it now seems to gather its intent and it reaches out towards Castiel, the light of the soul mingling with the light of the grace. And in another life, where Castiel never strayed from the ethereal, this would have been sufficient. But it is precisely the knowledge of constraints that has taught him to crave, and so he reaches out to touch Dean’s cheek.

He has mapped each flare of Dean’s soul onto the firing of each of his neurons, and yet he still cannot predict the precise nature of the sentiment bubbling within him. But Dean does not leave him in the dark; he never really seems to have been capable of doing so.

His hand also cups Castiel’s face. What little light there is suffices only to see the outlines of each other, to see the glimmer in each others’ eyes. Their breaths are mingling, warm and foggy between man and angel. Dean’s thumb brushes over Castiel’s lip, and he sucks in a deep breath, as if gathering courage.

„It is good to have you back, Cas.”

Dean’s eyelids flutter. He closes the gap between them. Lips meet lips in a chaste kiss, and their bodies surge forward, seeking to mold into one. And then another kiss, and another: harbingers of the new life they have nursed within their hearts through many a world’s end.

Castiel’s arms twine around Dean’s waist; Dean is pliant in his arms, his weight solid and comforting as he is arranged on his side, cradled against the backrest and blanketed with Castiel’s own body, showered with kisses that soften and slow until his breath evens out.

Castiel holds him through the night.

**Author's Note:**

> I firmly believe that the multiple mentions of neurons in this fic should earn me extra credit in my Neuroscience class. Come talk to me about anything except neurons on the Profound Bond Discord server: https://discord.gg/profoundbond :)


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